


A Tale of Light

by emocsibe



Category: The Magnificent Seven (2016)
Genre: Afterlife, Alternate Universe, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Dreams and Nightmares, Getting Together, Ghosts, Happy Ending, Healing, Illnesses, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Jack Horne (mentioned), Joshua Faraday (mentioned), M/M, Non-Explicit Sex, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Teddy Q (mentioned), Vasquez (mentioned)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-10
Updated: 2018-09-10
Packaged: 2019-07-10 10:00:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 22,328
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15947039
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/emocsibe/pseuds/emocsibe
Summary: Billy is running away from his past and after a lengthy journey that wears him down, he is ready to give up and let death claim him. Before he could commit to the idea, however, he finds a lighthouse that is the home of three men who help him, and who offer him not only safety but friendship as well. The only thing that annoys him is the cold – always there, clinging to his skin, to his bones, just like during the escape, just like when he was dying. Maybe there is more to the lighthouse or it's occupants than what first meets the eye.





	A Tale of Light

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the Magnificent Seven Big Bang, with absolutely wonderful artwork from SpaceMatriarchy (spacematriarchy.tumblr.com) that brilliantly displays the mood I was aiming for, and lots of help and beta-reading from SheenaWilde (sheenawilde.tumblr.com)  
> Also, I have to apologise for being late, real life was hectic in the last week.  
> (2018.12.01) I can't believe I forgot to tag two realtionships.

_ _

_ A Tale of Light _

 

It was 1879, and the crops glowed gold on the field next to Rose Creek, bending with the wind, bowing their heads to the four crosses that stood in a neat line, covered in flowers and ribbons that the townsfolk had left there. It was a life finished for the four, their passing a fresh, flaming wound for the three that had left them behind to rest in peace, but it was also a beginning nonetheless. A beginning for Rose Creek, for a myth to arise – about thrown knives and bullets that always found their marks, always in synch, just like the people they could be accredited to, about unshakable faith that revived a man for a last good deed, and about laughter just loud enough to rival with an explosion. It was a life they could not regain in the waking world, but a life they gained amongst the dreams of the young and the praises of the old – and in another life, where Faith had yet to decide what to do with them, some of the seven had yet to gather and meet the rest.

 

***

 

It was a murky, dark night with rain pouring from the skies, and with sharp wind whipping the cold droplets round in swirls and rushing the waves of the nearby ocean against the cliffs. Their dark silhouettes were glinting in the dim light of the crescent moon whenever it emerged from among the thick clouds, sometimes for bare seconds, sometimes for minutes. These intervals of light were just enough for the lone traveller to steer away from the tall cliffs and from the certain death that would surely await him should he fall into the raging water and be stuck between the might of the ocean and the merciless, sharp rocks hiding under the surface. He thought of falling and finding peace, he thought of giving up the miserable life he had been forced to lead, but he hesitated and then he knew that he would not succumb to this idea. He knew it very well how to kill fast, how to kill so even the victim was unaware of their own end, and he desired to have such a painless, merciful passing after a life filled with pain, suffering and a constant lack of goodwill. He stood there for a few seconds, then with a shake of the head he pulled his cloak tighter around himself, desperately trying to cling to the last fading memory of warmth that had long faded into the chilly night air, and continued his journey following the shoreline. He blinked away raindrops and teardrops borne out of pain, the pain of feeling bouts of wind cut across his face like knives of ice, and of the pain of knowing that there was no place to go home to. He walked slowly, held back by the wind that tried to make any step he took a step backwards, as if it didn’t want him to keep his advantage, as if it wanted him found and caught – even its howls echoed laughter, mirthful and dooming. He reached up to his face with a shaking hand that cracked from the cold and bled, and swiped his wet black hair out of his face, curling it behind his ear to grant himself a somewhat clearer visage, freed from his seaweed locks. 

He was tired, awfully so, and he was aware that even if he didn’t let himself to take a break, his body would grant itself whatever it needed, and with the passing of time and the distance he had covered, warmth started to seem like a secondary goal, foregone by the demand for a short rest. The traveller’s boats sank deep into the mud at places, where he contemplated leaving the drenched footwear behind without a single thought to it, seeing how it consisted of more holes than leather by that point. He considered this, and he considered a lot other things during his travel; he had the time for it after all, and he was that kind of person who did not like idleness if it had no function other than passing the time. He’d liked laying back on the grass when he had been a child, to watch how the birds had flown in circles overhead, how the sun had risen and set, how the geese had thought their younglings how to swim – these were idle things he had always enjoyed participating in. These memories emerged from the mist of the past as he walked through the damp tufts of tall grass and he smiled. The skin of his lips cracked at the movement, letting his freezing pale skin gather some colour thorough the blood that was now dripping from his mouth. It started to sting only minutes later, and at that he had to smile wider, had to smile and curl up on himself for a heartbeat to gather all remaining strength of his to not sit down then and there.

He closed his eyes and it was like finding a home, it was comfort, it was the moment when one got to the threshold and dropped their bag, it was the smell of his mother’s cooking, it was the calmest moment in his life. He didn’t want to open them again, so he let himself fall deeper and deeper into this comfort, into this cushioned darkness. He felt himself drop, felt the muddy ground welcome his knees with their fast fading slight warmth, but he cared no longer.

The first beam of light passed over him like that, crouched, paying no attention to the sudden burst of light that left him far too soon. His knees sunk into the watery ground as the last of his strength had left him, making him sit back on his ankles, trying his best to stay somewhat upright. He lifted his head upwards and thought of cursing a god he no longer believed in, just to be able to blame someone, to hate someone for a final time after trying desperately to learn to love this new country and its residents, but instead of hateful words that filled his heart, what burst out of his mouth was laughter. It made him shake harder than the cold ever could, taking away his breath and doubling the tears that kept raking angry red lines onto his face, with their stinging having already faded into the other pains he felt.

Thick clouds were passed to and fro in the skies by the battling currents of wind, and finally they got ushered in front of the moon’s silver scythe, laying a black pall over the land, taking visage away, only leaving the traveller the deep, threatening rumble of waves as companion. Then, for a heartbeat it seemed that all the winds changed direction for it felt as if they all rushed through the man, cooling his insides while warming up his freezing skin, piercing his heart with needles of ice and burning his limbs with flames made of snow – but then it was back to normal again. For half a moment he thought that his death had arrived and had claimed him, with all the darkness and the harsh sounds surrounding him, but the ache that was still present convinced him that he was in truth not so lucky. In his mind images flashed, some from his childhood and some from after he had to start to run, and even some of those memories surfaced that he could not grasp fully, that he could only remember in tastes and sounds and touches. He craved a hand to reach out and caress his burning cheeks, to lay him down and shut his eyes if Death wasn’t kind enough to do so. He swiped away the moisture from his face – bloodying his hand with his lips and bloodying his lips with the back of his hands – only to be rained upon instantly. He sighed and almost let his head lull forth onto his chest, when, through the dark that seemed impenetrable, a beam of light appeared, passing over the man whose eyes grew wide along with his formerly painful, now hope-filled smile. Somehow, with a determination that might have been closer to a last grasp at life and with strength that was solely granted by the last bouts of desperation, he clambered to his feet and battling against the wind he made his way towards the source of the light he had seen just before, hoping that it would appear again to confirm that he was going in the right direction. Some time later the beam swiped across his form again, and then, after the passing of the light, he could make out a dark silhouette on the horizon, barely different from the rest of the night sky and the soggy grounds, but it was there – a slim, tall building with the beacon that the man regarded as his saviour; a lighthouse.

It was as if time had stopped while he stumbled his way to the tower, while he struggled to put one foot after the other, but oh how glad he was that he would be in a dry place soon, how glad he was to know that maybe there would be a place to let himself warm up a bit, which granted him the strength he needed. He barely heard the noise his knuckles made on the thick wooden door, let alone feel it – he only sensed a warm tingling in his fingers, an uncomfortable heat that pained him to the bones, but he wouldn’t have been able to tell by feeling whether his hand made contact with the door or not. He was well aware that finding the building alone was such a luck, and such an unbelievable coincidence, that not rarely but never favoured him, and thus, he could do nothing more than hope that it was occupied and that his knocking could be heard though the sharp noises of the wind, the rumble of the waves and the constant thudding of the rain upon the widows. No answer came after the first try, or the third, or the sixth, but then, after he raised his hand again to just touch it, to touch the door as if calming his consciousness that he had done everything, and failed only after that, the hinges cried out. For a moment he couldn’t fathom why he saw wooden planks underneath his fists, barely inches from his nose, but then he looked up, or rather, tried to, without any success. His next memory consisted of sensations, mainly; warm hands turning him on his back, touching his neck, and the thought that flickered up in the wake of the contact was something along the lines of ‘so warm, so soft’, and he had to look. From where had he managed to gather any strength to open his eyes was a mystery to him, but he was glad that he had done so: crouching above was a man, holding an old, metal lantern in his right hand as he watched him. The look in his eyes was incredibly sad, further enhanced by the muted glow that fell on his face, making the shadows deeper and somehow mournful there. He wanted to ask something, or at least it seemed so by the way his mouth opened and formed words, but no sound reached the traveller, and soon, his eyes closed as he went limp on the floor, still burning from the cold.

 

 

 

When he came to, the cold was still there, clinging to his flesh and to his bones, twirling in his fingertips and his toes, making them ache and burn – but at least the rest of his body seemed to have had warmed up, for which, he concluded after a quick glance around the room, he had to thank the fireplace that burned at the opposite wall, and the warm blanket that had been thrown on him. He moved, and the pillow, alongside with the aforementioned blanket, seemingly moved against him, confining him to the bed with their longed-for softness, caressing the bare skin of his chest and his arms, and before long, he decided that he was tired, and if he was already in a bed, he should grab the opportunity and sleep some more. It was a nice idea, one that he followed without another thought, not hearing the door creak or the floorboards shift under soft boots.

The man in the doorway looked at his relaxed face and peaceful expression, and something in him, maybe a soul, or an echo of the past times prompted him to smile at the picture, softly, slightly, while his eyes filled with sorrow for the young lad. He went to the row of closets that took up most of the space under the spiralling stairs, and pulled out a soft, fuzzy blanket that still smelled like the herbs that he was given last year, picked and bound by the hands of a witch, meaning to calm his frayed nerves whenever his nightmares proved to be stronger or if his soul was seeking a few moments of peace amongst his bloody memories. Now, holding the quilt to his nose to inhale the fresh scent of lavender and rosemary, he hoped that it would help through the new guest whatever nightmare would engulf him on his way back to consciousness, then slowly, silently, he added the blanket to the one already covering the young man. He unconsciously reached up and brought it closer to his reddened cheeks, covering his nose and eyes, but not waking – not even when a warm hand touched his forehead, spreading heat into his chilled bones and flesh. It felt like a yet unknown comfort, felt like a blessing – and the man lying on the bed dreamt of thousand fires warming up the whole word, bringing laughter and peace; he dreamt of thousand fires burning up the skies and bathing everything in pain and suffering – he dreamt of life and death, beginning and end, love and hate. He dreamt of everything that night, his memories swirling together with those of the universe, his hopes forgotten, his pains past, while as a single beacon, the warm touch on his forehead remained.

 

***

 

He woke to the sound of a faraway voice, deep and rough, and that confused him to the very core. He remembered only bits and pieces of his journey, and in all honesty, he did not want to remember more, but it greatly unsettled him that he did not know where he was, or who was it that – by the sound of it – kept arguing with someone whose voice did not carry this far. His heart lurched at the thought of setting his blankets aside, as, even though covered from head to toe, he still felt the chill of a wind that surely couldn’t be present in the room, as it appeared to have thick walls made of solid rocks, and two sturdy windows with the plains firmly shut. He knew that the wind he felt was not real, maybe it was the lingering effect of him being in it for far too long for his tastes, and he hoped it would go away quickly. What he wanted to cling to was the scent that enveloped his bedclothes, something strong yet fresh, softly soothing the images that remained of his dreams, unsettling and grim, without connection or meaning to him. As he looked around, eyes still only barely open, trying to process what sensation was real and what was only a residue of his terrible nightmares, he noticed that the fireplace was still alight; thick blocks of wood crackling and flickering with flames that seemed to call out to him, to call him closer and closer to their warmth, something the traveller desired beyond all other things. He sighed and, after some consideration, put his feet on the floorboards that were, to his surprise, mildly warm. He welcomed the feeling as he stood up, letting the blankets fall back to the bed, selecting the one with the nice scent and wrapping it around himself before moving away from the bed. After he took a step, he had to curse as the room suddenly started to sway with him. He wanted to get to the fire, to sit close to it, so he went, and, with his balance getting worse and worse, he fell to his knees in front of the hart, bowing his head as if greeting the fire, thanking it for the heat it kept radiating, for the momentary relief it provided. His hair fell in front of his face, long and tousled, full of knots and dried dirt that would be painful to untangle, but at least it was dry, it was no longer dripping water, or plastering itself to his miserably cold skin. He fought to keep his eyes open, but the exhaustion that he still felt, even after his who knows how long sleep and the pleasant climate lulling his fears, made it increasingly difficult to not just give up and let his head fall forward and sleep some more right where he was sitting.

He must have dozed off, because the next thing he comprehended was a touch on his face, fingers brushing his hair away, tucking it behind his ear. He liked it, liked how gentle it felt, how someone was there with him and not hurting him – he also liked the voice he had heard just before, now talking somewhere near, maybe to him, even. Although he could not decipher the meaning as only shreds of words reached him, he was thankful, for the tone they were spoken in was friendly and gentle. He reached up and touched the hand that kept stroking his cheek, and offered it a small squeeze, then it was dark again, and he was floating in a world where only coldness and the distant smell of lavender prevailed.

 

The next time his eyes opened, he felt better. His feet were still sore from the lengthy walk, his eyes were still burning up from the cold wind he had to face, but he couldn’t deny that he was well rested and his aches were mostly gone. The cold, it seemed, had decided to remain and haunt him, although it was not as torturous as before. It dulled to a dry sensation that picked at his nails, cracked against his bones and made him tear up whenever he took a deeper breath. He sat up and turned to rest his feet on the still warm floor, boards cracking under him as he adjusted his weight. He buried his face in his palms for a moment, trying to collect each and every sane memory he thought to be reality and not one of his numerous dreams and nightmares that kept plaguing him during his rest – he groaned when his fingers slipped past his ears, into his hair, where they got stuck almost instantly. A sight escaped him as he drew his hands back, deciding that anyone lives here must be in possession of a mirror that he could use, maybe even some water, preferably as hot as hellfire itself, for he wouldn’t mind either the higher temperature or the possibility that he can untangle his hair and not let a pair of scissor do the trick. He would have hated to cut it – he had resented the idea when the first person called it indecent, and this had not changed since.

The floorboards made a sudden noise from the other side of the closed door, and almost as quickly as he turned his head towards the sound, four gentle knocks came.

“May I come in?”

The voice was familiar, one that he did not associate with pain, rather with warmth and the unknown but safe hours of his unconsciousness. He croaked out a ‘yes’, with his throat burning around the dry sounds, but whoever the inquiring man was, must have heard it, as he came in, lantern in his right hand and the doorknob in his left, hesitantly looking at the man on the bed.

“Are you feeling better?”

“’m thirsty” he said, although he wasn’t really thirsty, yet his mouth felt cracked and dry, lips straining with every syllable pronounced.

“Oh. Yes. I have brought you some earlier and you drank it, but it must have not been enough, how silly of me. You’ve been out for days my friend, but we have warm tea down in the kitchen if you feel up to a short walk?”

“Sure.”

“Okay, then let me grab you some clothes, it’s a little colder down there, and I see you are shivering as you are.”

“It’s cold.”

“Yeah. This season always is, and let me tell you, the rain sure as hell isn’t helping it at all.” The man put the lantern down on a stool next to the door, and opened one of the closets, searching for half a minute before pulling out a white cotton shirt and dark trousers, handing them over to the guest. He dressed quickly, trying to ward off the cold that was still present, poking at his bones like invisible needles of ice.

The man grabbed the lantern, then turned around and stepped out to what seemed to be a narrow staircase, and was ready to start going downwards when he stopped short, whipped around towards the man just getting out of bed, and touched his own forehead, which gesture was followed by an exhausted sigh.

“Forgive me my manners, my friend, we have visitors so rarely, I’m afraid I’ve became a poor host. Let me introduce myself” he said and reached out towards the guest “, my name is Goodnight Robicheaux.”

The guest looked at the hand, then back again at Goodnight before accepting the gesture.

“Billy. Billy Rocks.”

“What a pleasure, Billy – or Mr. Rocks?” Goodnight asked as he descended the stairs, lantern kept so that both of them could mind their steps. The light illuminated the stone walls, and as they reached a window, Billy couldn’t stop himself from taking a look. Outside everything was dark, dimly lit by the moon, which had decided on hiding behind a thick layer of clouds, not granting a decent light for the onlookers. Still, Billy could make out the edge of the cliffs, wet rocks glinting slightly, droplets of water reflecting the dull shine off of the grass, horizon blurring into a thick, black line where ground and clouds merged into an endless duvet of moving dark shapes.

“Billy. You’ve helped me, after all.”

Goodnight waited for him patiently, smiling as Billy turned to him, ready to follow him downwards. They finished a complete circle of stairs from the guestroom’s door, when Goodnight indicated to a slightly different door to their right.

“This is Sam and Red’s room, they also live here. I’m afraid to say, anytime they came to check up on you, you were out like a light. Not that you and I talked a lot, but at least I caught you with your eyes open – and that, that, my friend, was a relief. Facing the nightmares is truly the worst part.”

Billy hummed, crossing his arms over his chest, wondering how loud he must have been to alert his host, how he must have screamed at the fires and corpses littering his dreams, barely noticing how Goodnight’s eyes darkened at the mention of nightmares even though his smile remained friendly and bright.

They reached the bottom of the stairs, where the round space was divided into a bigger and several smaller units – three doors opening into three smaller rooms, and the living room itself taking up most of the place, together with what seemed to be a kitchen area, filled with a few counters and cupboards, a table and chairs. There were two armchairs and a couch in front of a lit fireplace, quilts thrown over all of them, bookshelves at the wall, and thick curtains where Billy suspected the windows to be. The floor was the same wood as in the upper room, covered with thick carpets at places that seemed soft and beckoning after endless days spent on aching feet.

“Please, do sit down anywhere you’d like while I get you some tea” Goodnight said, and then disappeared into one of the smaller rooms, leaving the door open. As Billy walked closer to the hart, he could see that the inside of the room was equipped with several rows of shelves, with jars and bowls sitting on most of them. He saw Goodnight’s back, his deep blue vest shining in the low light. Billy sat down on the rug in front of the fireplace, and drew his hands around his knees, wondering how could someone name their child Goodnight. His head still felt heavy with exhaustion and his thoughts were filled with the cold memory of the wind and rain, the darkness that ate his hopes away, so he scooted closer to the fireplace and leant against its side, warm stones pleasantly singing under his cool flesh. He closed his eyes and let himself be carried away by the crackling of the logs and the smell of fire and smoke. Although he had slept a lot during the previous days, he slipped into a state that might have been closer to sleep than to the waking world, hearing a door creak, feet shuffle on the thick carpet, boots clicking against the hard floorboards that led to the stairs. What brought him back to the here and now was a hand on his back, a careful and soft touch that did not carry the usual enmity and threats in it. It felt comforting in a way, to find kindness in the least expected place, at the most unlikely time, but he was thankful for each gesture and each moment of calm, so he took it with a small smile. He blinked his eyes open, and found Goodnight sitting next to him, a mug held out in Billy’s direction. It was still steaming, and as Billy took hold of the mug, it slightly warmed his fingertips.

“Watch out, it’s still hot. Just got ready. Put some sage and thyme in it, should help with any lingering cold and prevent you from getting sick. Or at least I hope so. Red knows the herbs, and of course, Emma does as well, but neither are here at present.”

Goodnight smiled as Billy took a cautious sip, something strong and sweet and spicy at the same time. It truly felt good, although as soon as the drink got past his throat, the cold returned just the same.

“Thank you.”

“Anytime, my friend, anytime! Alas, I know you must still be tired, but would you tell me what brings you ‘round these parts?”

Billy drank some more before answering, only humming to himself as he kept the mug at his mouth.

“Me and the man I was working for disagreed on something. I got to get away so I ran. Eventually I got to the cliffs, and saw the light, so I decided to try my luck here. I think I couldn’t have been luckier. Thank you again, Goodnight.”

“It was nothing. You freaked us out with you fainting like that, though. We thought you’d be on the other side of creation in a few hours and yet, you pulled through. Guess you have to thank yourself as well for this. How are you feeling, by the way?”

“Still cold. I could swear it ate itself into my flesh out there. Feels like I could reach into the fire and still feel ice in my fingers.”

“Yeah. You must have spent too much out there in the wind. Maybe you should remain close to the fire while you warm up.”

Billy hummed and closed his eyes as he took a cautious sip from the tea again, the warmth once again disappearing after a few blessed seconds from his mouth, from his chest and he shivered against the stone hart. His heart was aching with the disappointment he felt, but the same time, he had to smile into his drink a bit as Goodnight draped one of the quilts laying on the armchair on his back, strong hands squeezing his shoulders in a friendly gesture. At least, he mused, he met someone nice because of his misfortunate escape – at least he was cared for in a way he had not experienced since he had grown into a child able to work. He leant back into the touch, just a bit, just to feel it for a second longer, and tried to hide his discontented sigh as Goodnight stood up.

As he was sitting there, he closed his eyes and started listening to the sounds of the place, occasionally drinking from the strong tea, hoping that the motions required for that would keep him awake. After days spent in bed, he had no wish to sleep again, at least not while Goodnight was walking around the living room, steps muffled by the rugs. The fire next to him crackled as the flames ate at the logs, and the wind soughed past the windows with a low, sharp noise.

“It is going to rain” Goodnight’s voice was a deep rumble from somewhere near, but Billy decided not to open his eyes, not to look at the man, only to tilt his head and wrap himself further into the quilt.

“How do you know?”  

“From how the wind sounds. And also, listen” he said, then waited with Billy in complete silence, as a door slammed shut. “Red hates being out when it’s raining. I just saw him and Sam coming back, and I have known Red for long enough to trust his judgement.”

“I agree with your friend, rain is only enjoyable from this side of a wall” Billy said and drank, the taste of tea made bitter by the memory of cruel water digging into his skin, craving out lines of pain and ice, flattening his hair and plastering it against his face. A shiver ran through him at the memory, clawing at his lungs and shaking his breath.

He heard the door open then, and looked up to see two men enter the room – one with his hair cut on both sides and a sharp look to his eyes, the other with a hat pulled low over his face, most likely in order to keep it in his possession and not let the wind carry it away. They took off their coats and hat, and hung them up near to the middle door leading out of the living room. Billy stood up then, determined to thank them for their hospitality. He hugged the quilt closer to himself as he walked to the men, offering his right hand, forcing his eyes to remain open.

“Name’s Billy Rocks. Thank you for helping me back there, I’m sure I’d be dead if not for your help” he said, and watched as the two men looked at each other with a weird look in their eyes, as if he’d said something that made them question his sanity. After a few seconds of hesitation, though, the man previously hiding under his hat nodded at him and accepted his handshake.

“I’m Sam Chisolm, and” he put his right hand on the other man’s back as he spoke”, this is Red Harvest. I think it’s safe to say we’re all relieved that you woke up finally. We couldn’t do much, but we hoped it would help you.”

Billy shook hands with Red Harvest, too, then, after Sam started to walk towards the couch, he also decided to sit back to the hart.

“It certainly did, Mr Chisolm, although I still feel like freezing. It must be a lot colder out than it was a few days ago to chill the air in here as well.”

Sam looked at the man, bundled up in several layers of blankets, leaning against the bricks that framed the fireplace, knowing that they must be a lot hotter than the air itself, and this image awakened a deep, aching pain in him. He knew that at first, it could not be noticed – at first everything was just like before, everything seemed fine, except for a few things that were suddenly more present, more bothersome; just like the cold.

“Yeah” he grimaced and turned to stare at the storage room where Goodnight had disappeared a moment prior “It has gotten quite cold. Red says it will stay like that for a few days.”

Billy was just about to answer when suddenly a harsh sound of glass hitting the ground and shattering into pieces came from the storage room, followed by a string of curses that were foreign for Billy’s ears. Billy wanted to ask Sam if Goodnight would be alright, whether he thought the man needed help, but Red Harvest chose this moment to sit down next to Sam, and shake his head.

“He’s fine. Don’t worry.”

 “How did you know I was going to ask?”

“Red is like that. Knows people inside out” said Sam, smiling softly as he turned his head towards the other man next to him.

“And the herbs and the weather and whatnot” added Goodnight, entering the living room again. Red nodded and relaxed into the couch, his eyes closed, while Sam let out a small huff of breath, as if not believing what his friend had just said.

As soon as Goodnight got around the couch, Billy couldn’t help but look at his hands, looking for cuts the glass could have left, but found no visible trace. He saw, however, a few stems of lavender grasped in Goodnight’s hand, tied together neatly.

“Lavender is a curious flower” started Goodnight as he sat down in the armchair closest to Billy, holding out the stems towards him “; some people cannot stand the smell of it, saying that it is too strong, that it makes their heads ache – all the while, there are people who calm down if surrounded by its smell, people who can sleep peacefully when you put a sack of lavender under their pillows, even if their rest is usually haunted by nightmares.”

Billy reached out a shaking hand and took the flowers, their stem dry and coarse against his palm, their roughness enhanced by the numbness of his skin. He didn’t even need to bring them closer to his nose, yet their smell hit him instantly – the smell of his rest, the blankets, that comfort he drew from the pleasant aroma during his feverish wakings and terrifying dreams.

“I felt this earlier” Billy started as he held out the flowers, intending to give it back to Goodnight “While I was dreaming.”

“I hope it did help you a bit.”

“A lot, actually. It truly is calming.”

“Then feel free to keep it” insisted Goodnight, and took hold of Billy’s right hand to push it back towards him, folding his numb fingers around the lavender as he did so.

“Emma always brings a lot of herbs and flowers from her walks, so there is no shortage in either. It is a great pastime to tie them nicely, and it also looks good when you put them to places so they can dry. It gives the place a certain kind of atmosphere, where you can stay calm, where everything is light and it is as if the sun has promised personally to shine in soon” Goodnight leant back in the armchair, crossing one leg over the other, and stared at the drawn curtain on Billy’s right.

“We certainly could use some of that, and preferably soon” spoke Sam, and shuffled to his feet, heading towards the bookshelves “I hate reading by lamplight.”

“No, you don’t” added Red, only one eye open, smirking as he also stood and lit an oil lantern. He stepped closer to Sam and leant against the bookshelf, holding the lamp close so Sam could read the titles.

“Sure, sure. Better reading by that than nohow, but still, it gets really heavy on my sight after a while” Sam said, and finally deciding on a book, he grabbed it and turned to follow Red Harvest to the stairs. As he said goodnight, and started his descent, Billy could have sworn that his light shirt had a darker patch on his back. He looked at the dark quilts covering the couch, and wondered what could have stained it so badly that it even clung to Sam’s clothes. His thoughts were still foggy, though, so he decided not to dwell on it for long.

He had Goodnight close to him, sitting quietly, looking after the retreating men, seemingly deeply lost in his thoughts, and it was serene enough for him not disturb it by speaking. He had always treasured silences that comforted and despised speech that was empty and uncomfortable – he had come to the States speaking only a few words and had learnt the hard way that people swung more than a few curses at people like himself, at people only speaking the bare minimum. He had first acquired the language of a strong fist and sharp knives, and only after that had he bothered with a more refined set of English vocabulary. But, he supposed, here and now, with the kind hosts around, he would have no use of either his hands or knives, if he had any – he’d rather talk and get to know them. His head was full of unsaid questions, full of whys and hows: how did they meet and why did they decide to live here, so far from everyone else? The thought appealed to him, doubly so after his latest taste of what humankind was capable of; yet he couldn’t fathom how the three had come to the decision to draw back from society this much.

He listened to the rain on the shutters, their sharp, lazy noise against the wood, and shivers started to run through him. With the sound, memories of his escape came back, the cruel pinpoint splatter of raindrops against his skin that was so cold it felt unbearably hot, and he crawled closer to the flames, wishing that the pitter-patter of the lit logs would prove to be louder than the rain, wishing to purge the memory, the feeling, with fire if needed. He closed his eyes as the room started to sway, and for a moment, he did not know of anything – he was not sure anymore if he was cold or hot, if he was still sitting up or laying down, but he was sure that amidst all this chaos, a hand found his head and held it, while another one took hold of his shaking shoulder to rub through the material of his shirt, making his skin tingle with a small, blessed bit of warmth.

“Billy, it will be alright. Trust me, mon ami, it will be better with time” Goodnight said, his voice a deep rumble of good will and safety, his touch a relief that warmed up Billy’s neck, his arm, that made him smile in spite of still feeling the phantom pain of the sharp wind and the merciless storm. Billy knew that most people would not have bothered to reassure him, to calm him, maybe some would have taken the chance to do him even more harm, but here Goodnight was, an acquaintance of a few days, even if he counted his unconscious state, and he was helping him. It was a long process that had gotten Billy painfully aware of how many people would do him harm if opportunity presented itself, so it always took him by surprise when someone opted to help him rather – it made him suspicious and doubtful, although he had to admit that being cared for was nice. Pleasant even – something that he associated with his childhood home, his mother and her rough hands that only stopped working when he needed help, her smiles and her lowered voice telling him tales at his sick bed. And now, the same kindness was directed at him in a stranger’s home, by a man who knew nothing about him, and yet, it brought him the same comfort.

He opened an eye and tilted his head a bit upward to look at Goodnight, sitting cross-legged on the floor, fire glinting back from his buttons, painting his pale face golden and his greying hair brown. He was a handsome man, one of those who aged before it was due – and Billy wondered yet again, what his story might be. Did he fight a war or live a life that itself was a constant battle? Did he come here to forget or to come to terms with his past?

“When did you move here?” Billy asked, and pushed his head against Goodnight’s hand, craving the soft touch. He also noticed that anytime he came in contact with the man, he felt such a scorching heat that even the fireplace could not provide. He silently wondered if it was a side effect of his cold, or if Goodnight simply had a higher temperature than the average. Either way, it felt heavenly to be able to lean into it and find comfort in the softness as well as in the warmth.

“Oh, that is a great question. I must tell you, time flies so quickly around here, I might be off a bit in my estimates, but I’d say a good few years ago. Maybe five, or around that. Sam came with me originally and Red joined us later on. Jack, you know, the man who used to live here before us is usually away, comes back for a few days a year and brings stories from the sea that never fail to amaze me. Red likes them too, but will not admit it even if threatened with hellfire. So, Jack has lived here for decades and, let me tell you, you can just tell it. He is calm and quiet – so content with existence it scares me sometimes.”

“And now” continued Goodnight with a soft smile “we have you here as well. I don’t mean to pry into your past businesses but… A man on the run, in this forsaken weather? I am quite sure my friend that this change of air will do you good. Calm a few nerves, maybe?”

As he spoke, his hands remained where they were, touches and words slowly grounding Billy in the here and now, helping him to gain back his bearings, until the room once more felt steady around him.

“Yes, staying a few days will help a lot, I guess.”

They sat there for a while, rain pouring ceaselessly, bringing the sound of thunder and the smell of clean air with it. Billy leant against Goodnight’s side and almost fell asleep like that. His head was too heavy with exhaustion to question it or to protest when Goodnight squeezed his shoulder and told him to get up and go to bed – he only nodded and stood up, feeling the room sway with his own unsteady movements. At the moment, he only wanted to get to the second storey and fall into bed. He clutched the lavender stems in his hand, hoping for sweet dreams, or anything other than the nightmares he dreaded.

Goodnight took hold of his right elbow and guided him up the stairs, steadying him a few times when he stumbled. When they moved past Sam and Red’s door, Goodnight could have sworn that the noises muffled by the thick wooden door were ones of pleasure. Ha had gotten used to it quite some time ago, yet he knew that there were people that could not stand such things. He wondered whether Billy had noticed it as well, whether he would loathe his hosts or accept their love for one another; he had so many questions he wanted to ask of Billy, yet he restrained himself. Billy didn’t give any signs of being uncomfortable or having heard anything at all. What he displayed was fatigue and dizziness as they swayed up the stairs, Billy’s arm thrown over Goodnight’s shoulder, blanket hanging from his back, painting a sad image of a man tired beyond measure.

“If you need anything” Goodnight said as they reached Billy’s room “, feel free to get me. I’m in the rom right above yours. Oh, and least I forget, that there” he pointed at a door on the wall intersecting the room” is the washroom if you want to take a hot bath.”

Billy nodded his thanks, although it was clearly written on him that he’d do nothing after Goodnight had left but sleep, so while he sat down on the bed, Goodnight added some logs to the fire, hoping that it would help his newest friend. By the time he turned around, Billy was half asleep, blinking at Goodnight with half and eye.

“Good night, Billy” he said and touched one of his fever-hot hands to Billy’s temple, looking at the ashen rings under his eyes. “Know that nothing can harm you anymore.”

He brought the blankets higher, so only Billy’s face and his hand full of lavender were poking out from under them. As he walked out, he felt his heart squeeze with the feeling that Billy’s calmness was too precious to be shattered by the truth.

 

***

 

Sam was currently gathering the bloodied bandages that Red Harvest had peeled off of him earlier when a light knocking sound came from their door. Red Harvest looked up from the bed, lazily turning his head in its direction, turning away as a sign of him not wishing to get up. Sam only shook his head, and pulled on a fresh pair of trousers, answering with a loud “yes?”

“You decent in there?”

“Sure am” answered Sam, and walked to their washroom to dump his reddened bandages into a bowl, waiting if Red felt like answering or not. He heard no voice claiming the same thing, only the creaking of the old wood as Goodnight entered the room. There was a minute silence from the other room, then Goodnight’s voice sliced it into pieces.

“You said you were dressed!”

“Sam said that. I said nothing. The fault is yours.”

Sam only laughed at their banter, having accepted it a long ago that Red Harvest was and always would be a cheeky lad, one who did not care about things he deemed less than important, such as being dressed in front of someone that had saved him from the ocean and cared for him for weeks, resulting in Goodnight seeing him without clothes on more than a few occasions. He suspected that his lover had never been ashamed of how he looked like, clothed or not, and that was something he adored about him. Overcoming one’s negative feelings about their own bodies was not easy, and yet, Red had done so. Sam himself wasn’t a man easily flustered by bodies, after years and years of living together with other men in close quarters, and yet, at the beginning of their intimate relationship he had found it surprisingly hard to show Red Harvest his scars and wounds, to share himself completely and without the slightest trace of shame.

He shook his head and stepped out into the bedroom, then clapped a hand on Goodnight’s shoulder. He smiled at his lover, who, after a quick roll of his eyes, decided to have mercy on their fiend and pulled the blanket on his lap.

“Am I correct in assuming” Sam started “that now we’re going to talk about our guest?”

“Sam, the lad doesn’t know a thing yet.”

“He’ll notice in time” added Red, absentmindedly reaching for a bruise on his right arm, brushing the darker patch of skin, looking at Sam and the wound on his chest, now again leaking blood onto the bandages on his chest.

“But we could make it easier on him, we could offer him what we did not receive for such a long time! We could offer him an understanding of the situation, hands he can hold onto when he feels this betrayal of the universe…!” Goodnight was pacing across the room, his hands nervously tugging at the bottom of his vest, trying to catch up to his speeding thoughts. He felt devastated when he thought about how empty Billy’s eyes were, how tired he looked couching on the ground, in the layers of fabric that will never offer him the same comfort again, trying to warm himself up at the fireplace – all for naught.

“You already got yourself attached to him, didn’t you?” Sam’s voice was low, just a whisper in Goodnight’s ears, and yet, they could have been shouted for all he cared. They both knew that Sam was right – Billy had captured Goodnight with his honest eyes, with his words that held no accusations only hopes that it would all get better. He stopped in his tracks, and turned to Sam and Red Harvest.

“What should we do? What should I do?” His voice was filled with despair and misery, yet he hoped that they would understand. Both his friends had a rare treasure he lacked: they had each other, a friend turned lover – yet Goodnight had been alone at night in his bed for too long. He craved arms around himself, he craved being kissed and kissing someone. He could not help it, he had always been a romantic soul, one that lived to please and love, and one that had found himself bereft of all these things.

“Maybe you should speak to him when he feels better. No need to take away all happiness from him in one go, right? Just wait until he’s in a better shape, my friend. Until then, just enjoy his company, get to know him maybe. He will be happy to have friends, the closer the better once he faces the truth.”

“Yeah. I’m certainly going to treasure every minute, but I think Emma would be much better suited for the task ahead. She knows the answers while I’m still filled with questions myself.”

“Emma will arrive whenever she chooses to. It could be days or months – you don’t want to keep Billy in the dark for that long, I presume?”

“No, I… You are right. As soon as he is up to it, I will tell him what became of his life.”

“Good” Red nodded, and tugged on Sam’s trousers to gain his attention. He was tired, and wanted to curl up in his lover’s embrace, and while he felt for Goodnight, he truly did, he knew that the situation would not solve itself, nor would their talking solve it that night. Goodnight nodded at the small sign, and with a barely audible “sleep well”, he left the room.

 

***

 

Once in his room, Goodnight changed his clothes – he needed no sleep, but it gave the days a sort of frame, to fall asleep and to wake. What’s more, he used to love sleeping, just as much for the comfort of his bed or the comfort of a lover’s body, as for the dreams that offered a way out of his screwed up life. Yet now, now there was no comfort found in any dream, since they were barely different from his waking days. He felt his skin burn all day and he dreamt of fire consuming his flesh and his soul, he felt the bedclothes catch on fire, he felt himself being consumed by that old fever that haunted him since the war. Nowadays he only slept to make time go faster and faster, although he had little to no hope that his suffering would ever end – forever had no end, had it?

But now, sleep seemed to be a good opportunity to take his mind off of the new addition to their small family, of his connection to Billy Rocks, this intriguing man with the most wonderful eyes. Goodnight felt sorry for him, for he knew it well how horrible it was when nothing could soothe the sensation that is not real, yet must be carried for as long as the creator of everything once again shows them mercy and grants them rest. He groaned into the pillow as his mind jumped to the ever burning question of the immortality he and his friends had to face, but decided not to focus on it. He wanted, no, he needed to concentrate on something nicer, something better for a change. He buried his face in his pillow and imagined a brighter side of having a new friend, of having Billy with them. He imagined how Billy might just lighten up the life around their home once he started feeling better, and the picture his mind painted proved to be such a happy one, that instantly brought a smile on his face.

Thinking about him brought forth the original questions he’d wanted to avoid: ones about the new nature of Billy’s existence. He was sure that the man would ask about the signs, so small and convenient, yet so different from those who lived. He was also dreading to answer anything that was in connection with what could have happened to his remains – Red Harvest had found it a few days after Billy fainted in their home, and it was not a nice sight. Still, if Billy asked for it, Goodnight mused, he should show it and let the man face what needed to be faced. He and Sam both remembered the day they’d found Red’s body on the rocks, crushed by the waves and licked almost fully skinless by the water. Although Billy’s body was in a much better shape, Goodnight could not accept that those empty, bloodshot eyes were the same beautiful ones that Billy now possessed, all dark and deep. He was curious how they’d look like if Billy was happy. His next thought was that he would have liked to see who put all that suffering and sadness in them. He wanted anyone that caused Billy to run into such a great storm to suffer, to receive some fitting punishment, even though he was not aware of the whole story of how Billy came to be here. He had a feeling, tough, that this disagreement between Billy and his employer must have been a major headache if it was enough to lead him here. He was also sure that no disagreement sends a man on the run if it can be settled by talking, only if it ends in violence, then in even more bloodshed – and if he had ever learnt something, it was that he always should trust his gut feelings. They always seemed right.

This meant that there might have been still people out, looking for Billy. Goodnight hoped that Emma would take care of them. And Emma was a sure point in this unsure existence – somehow she always knew how to ease a passing.

Goodnight slept well that night and come morning, he woke remembering a wonderful sight in his dream: a light smile on Billy’s face.

 

***

 

Billy woke up in a bed that smelt like safety and was so soft that he let himself linger in the cocoon of blankets for a little longer than necessary. His morning usually consisted of waking and running – either to do the bidding of a man that saw Billy as a lesser being, or later on, for his life. Now, however, he knew that if any of the men in the house wanted to harm him, they would have done so by now, meaning that he was as safe as he could get. It was also doubtful, he mused as he got up from the bed and stroked the embers in the fireplace, that men like these three would try harming anyone who is not a threat to them. Sam seemed too calm for it, while Red Harvest had a curious glint in his eyes, one that screamed mischief, but not that kind that left scars left and right. Goodnight was something entirely else, Billy thought. The man was kind and compassionate, and it seemed that he was intent on helping Billy throughout his illness. Maybe, for the first time a long while, Billy had found a place where he could relax, where he could make friends for a change, and not enemies.

Billy put a few logs on the embers, sitting down in front of the hart, waiting for the flames to appear. He realised that he was less cold than the day before, although he still felt the bite of the wind in his fingers and the shivers that kept on running beneath his skin. It was, however, more tolerable, for which he was grateful. It felt like dying, the day prior, and not only because of the cold, but because of the exhaustion that came with whatever illness he’d contracted; he was sure he would have just tumbled off of the stairs if not for Goodnight. He needed to speak to the man, to say thank you one more time, and maybe because talking to him actually felt nice, and Billy missed nice things from his wreckage of a life. He opened the drawer Goodnight had picked out his shirt from yesterday, and found it filled with similar ones, so he put on a clean one, then, after some more looking, he found a few vests, too. He picked out a black one, with small embroideries around the buttonholes, spiralling like vines into each direction. He wondered if it was something of a value to one of the residents, or left behind by their predecessor, Jack. He hoped that no one would be cross with him for wearing clothes he pick out at random. He washed his face in the washroom, then, after a small debate with himself he decided not to change the water now, as he didn’t want to open the window or balance the tray down the stairs, fearing that the same heart wrenching weather would great him, or that he’d spill it on the stairs. He stored the task away for the night time, and headed down to the ground floor.

 

 “Good morning” greeted Billy Red Harvest, who was lounging on the sofa at the moment. There were several bowls around him, full of herbs none of which Billy could have named, in different stages of being tied together. There were stems that were still the way they were picked, maybe only lacking the dirt, ranging from small to too long to fit into the container. There were ones that had been cut into the same size, some already tied together to be hanged to dry, some in Red’s hands, or laying in one of the bowls.

“Slept well?” Red Harvest asked, and Billy nodded, then, seeing how the other man did not lift his head even after his question, he answered.

“I did, thank you. I’m less cold, too.”

“That’s to be expected. Time’s passing” Red said as he put a bouquet aside, reaching for new stems. Billy sat in the armchair closest to the fire, and watched as the logs burnt, flames consuming them with such playful sounds that it almost made Billy forget how dangerous it is. He had leant close to the fireplace yesterday, his hair untied, freely falling around his head and back, completely uncaring of what would happen should it catch fire. Now, retrospectively seeing the situation, he cursed himself for this lack of attention, knowing that burns were easy to obtain and hard – if not impossible – to get rid of. As the previosu day played in his thoughts, he realised that he had not heard either Sam or Goodnight on his way down, nor seen them yet.

“Are Sam and Goodnight out?”

Red Harvest glanced up at him at the question, and smiled as he shook his head.

“No. They went up to talk. Goodnight needed company.”

“Company?”

“He sleeps bad nowadays. Needs to talk it out.”

“Ah” Billy nodded “I see. What does this ‘up’ mean, though? I don’t think I’ve seen the house above the level I sleep in.”

“Goodnight has a room, then there’s an empty one. Above that the light room.”

“Right. I saw the light while out. It was a great help to get here, like a beacon.”

Billy smiled at the not so very distant memory, and stood up. The shutters were opened this time, so he glanced out, barely recognising the landscape around the house. The weather was still grim, but it wasn’t raining now – the ground was still wet, though, maybe as a remnant from yesterday’s rain, or from a more recent one –, which somehow reassured Billy. He used to love rain, yet now he wanted to stay out of it for as long as possible. The treeline in the distance was something he had not noticed on his way here, but that was visible now, connected to the cliffside with a rich and vibrantly coloured moorland. It looked rather serene, Billy thought.

“What do you think” he turned to Red Harvest “, will it rain soon?”

“No. Safe to go out.” Red Harvest said, then he put down the finished bouquet and stood up. He went to the door that led to the antechamber, and called out for Billy to follow him. Then, he opened a wooden chest that was high enough to sit on, and pulled out a nicely folded brown cloak and a pair of boots.

“Still cold a bit out” he said, and handed over the cloak to Billy, and put the boots down to the floor, then opened the door as if to encourage him to take a walk.  The fresh air and the pale but present rays of the sun called him to go, as did the greens and yellows of the moorland, to explore and to walk, to feel that the weather still possessed a softer side. He pulled the cloak around himself and put on the boots, and headed out, taking every step slowly, not rushing at all – now he wanted to take a stroll for the enjoyment he gained out of it, and not as he had been forced to. The footwear was surprisingly comfortable, not too small or too huge, and the cloak did, in fact, keep him as warm as he felt in the house – which wasn’t as warm as he’d have liked, but certainly better than on the preceding days. The watery ground slopped against his boots as he wandered around, listening to the far away shrills of the seagulls, taking deep breaths of the salty air and enjoying the sunshine. It was serene – it was a stop from running and hiding. He had been thinking about Goodnight’s offer to stay until the weather cleared, but something in him wanted to stay even after that. Calm was a rare kind of state for him nowadays, and so, he treasured it, just as he treasured those people that elicited it in him.

“It does look nice, doesn’t it?”

Billy nodded and smiled at the man as Goodnight placed a hand on his shoulder. It was truly beautiful. He could understand why anyone would want to build a home here, to be able to see this every day.

“Are you better?”

Goodnight just sighed and hung his head in defeat.

“Did Red tell on me again?”

“No, it was a spider. In the corner of the stairway. Are you?”

“For what it’s worth, yes. Talking it out makes it more like a bad dream and less like the reality it seems while I’m seeing it. Sometimes I wish I was a coward when I was young and ran as far from the army as possible.”

“You dream of your army days?”

 “No, it’s just… The images are horrible but they aren’t memories. It just fuels them that I know what corpses look and smell like, how their skin feels against my hand… I keep seeing dead people, their corpses already decaying, and each and every of them are a sign that I cannot help, that I’m not enough. And then, the corpses walk and talk and I have to tell them they are dead. I have to take away a last illusion of life, a last hope from them. Whenever it happens, I feel like I’m worse than Death.” Goodnight sighed and tucked his hands in his pockets. He was warm as he was, he wanted to cool his hands in the slow wind, but he didn’t know what to do with them – he wanted to grasp his dreams and tear them apart, and he wanted to tear into his own skin and flesh and shout until everything he had seen hurts less than his physical pain.

“I had disturbing nightmares after coming here, but the herbs helped. But I guess, you use them all the time, right?”

“Yeah. They help, and still… the horror happens, and then quite a few of my nights after a nasty dream are troubled. And the smell helps, it grounds me in the here and now, you know? But how did you guess?”

Billy leant a bit closer and let his arm brush against Goodnight’s, smiling at the fresh, tiny flowers in the distance. They looked like a blanket, ready to warm the earth and lull it into peaceful sleep.

“You smell like lavender and rosemary.”

Goodnight laughed, silently and still pained, but the smile that followed it was warm and so thankful that Billy’s heart ached from joy.

 

***

 

“Are they together?” Billy asked as he sat down next to Goodnight a few days later, this time only one blanket on his back, holding a mug of hot tea in his slightly shaking hands.

“So you heard it?” asked Goodnight as he stood up with his book in hand to put it back on the shelf. He wanted to avoid looking Billy in the eyes, dreading that the man would freak out if he admitted anything about his friends’ relationship.

“Heard what?”

“Them making love” Goodnight was busy looking at the books on the shelf, or at least he pretended to be doing so – Billy could not fathom if he was shy or nonchalant when it came to discussing intimate matters, as no such thing had been brought up before.

“No. I didn’t hear that. They just look like lovers. So close all the time, even when across the room.”

“Oh.” Goodnight muttered something, then silence fell, and seemed to linger infinitely in the room. Goodnight counted. Infinite was restricted when he got to a hundred and twenty-four.

“I kind of envy them.”

Goodnight turned and saw a smile on Billy’s face, even more handsome than before. But even that seemed like a minor detail now for Goodnight because – because Billy was smiling. Disgusted people did not smile. People wanting to punch them did not smile. But Billy did. And he envied them.

“You mean you don’t mind?” Goodnight walked back to the couch, sitting down next to Billy, knowing that his face looked hopeful at best, wanting at worst, but he could not control it.

“Them being in a relationship, or them being both men?”

Goodnight just shook his head, then whispered a broken, unsure “either”.

“They seem to care about each other a great deal. I wish I’ve met more people like them – calm and helpful, and without an ounce of ill will. Even if I had something against them being happy, I’d swallow it down. But in all honesty, it seems something I should be envious of, not something I’d condemn.”

“You envy them?”

“Yes. This kind of relationship… It never seemed to end well. Not for others and not…” Billy hesitated and looked down, suddenly interested in the pattern of fabric Goodnight’s pants had. He sure sat close, enjoying Billy’s presence – and Billy hoped it wouldn’t change any time soon “Not for me.”

“I’m sorry, Billy” Goodnight said, and in in his voice was such sadness that Billy grew sure about his sincerity.

“I don’t. They never wanted anything lasting. They were not worthy of my time then, and of my sorrow now. But seeing Sam and Red Harvest being this casual about their bond is calming. As if they believed no one would disturb it.”

“Here” Goodnight said, and, to Billy’s slight shock, touched a few fingers against Billy’s chin and lifted his head up “no one would. No one comes here with ill intent, I assure you. And if they do” continued Goodnight with a curious little smile on his face that made Billy’s blood chill for a moment “they will realise that we have our ways handling them.”

“What ways?” Billy asked and took hold of Goodnight’s wrist, not pulling it away from his face, rather keeping it and its blessed warmth there.

“Ways that would churn their blood if they knew it in advance – ways that leave them soulless and lifeless and terribly sorry for their mistake of ever disturbing our peace.”

The smile with what Goodnight had said these things didn’t match the words and their seriousness, so Billy regarded it as a rather morbid joke on his part, smiling at the other man, silently thanking him for the comfort he provided him with.

In that moment, his life seemed to be perfectly comfortable and somehow, a sliver or warm fought its ways into Billy’s chest, asking, demanding Billy to do anything that could express how much he liked having Goodnight around, having him this close to him, and how much he wanted to be closer and closer, so he did that: he leant closer and let his lips meet with Goodnight’s mouth. He kissed him slowly, softly, then drew back to look at the man. Goodnight’s eyes were open and so wonderfully blue and inviting, that Billy had to lean back into another kiss. Goodnight’s fingers on his cheek slid into his hair, pulling him closer, while with his other hand he reached up and touched Billy’s neck. Billy felt warmth spread around him and in him as he slid closer still on the couch, one hand grabbing at Goodnight’s thigh, the other resting on the man’s face. He tasted salt on Goodnight’s mouth, and wondered if Goodnight could still feel the herbal taste of yesterday’s tea on his – and then a stray thought hit him.

He had not been hungry since he arrived. He had not eaten anything. He thought he felt thirsty when asking for water, yet it was only his chapped lips and dry mouth that demanded a drink, not his empty stomach. There was something wrong with that, he thought, but he felt too comfortable leaning against Goodnight and getting lost in his kisses to really care about the topic. Maybe he had gotten sick and lost his appetite. He didn’t care at the moment, and promptly forgot about it when Goodnight licked into his mouth for the first time. He absolutely felt wonderful and refused to pay attention to anything else but the kisses ranging from sweet to enticing, from chaste to deep and inviting. He decided he loved getting lost in Goodnight’s kisses.

 

***

 

“Hey, Goody” Billy started, letting the book he had been reading close around one of his fingers “Did I eat anything after getting here?”

“Pardon?” Goodnight, although not speaking but reading for the past hour, somehow grew even more silent. Maybe it was the way his features cemented or the way his eyes grew cold, Billy couldn’t decide.

“I don’t remember eating, but I’m not hungry either.”

“Oh, maybe you are just ill, don’t worry about it. I’m sure whatever it is, it will be gone soon.”

“I should try eating something, though. I shouldn’t get any weaker, seeing that my cold won’t leave me either” Billy said, his eyes fixed on Goodnight’s face. If he had noticed anything aside from not being hungry in the past days, it was that Goodnight was a honest man – or at least, his face made him one. His feelings were clear in his eyes, in the way he frowned, in the small crow’s feet that deepened with each smile. And right now, Goodnight’s face told him that his question had a more serious answer than he’d thought. Goodnight didn’t want to talk about it, it seemed, but if Billy hated something, truly hated, then it was not knowing. He had hated when he couldn’t understand the people around him when he had gotten to America, when he’d first tried to work for someone. He had hated that the words flew over his head, that only the crude gestures and the cold tones of foreign words guided him through his days. And now he hated that there was something that he did not know and Goodnight was reluctant to share.

Goodnight clapped shut the book he had occupied himself with, and with a stretch, and a long look at the floorboards, he walked to the door.

“Before you go, where do you keep the bread? Even if I’m sick I should be able to stomach it.”

“I… Look, I need to ask Sam” Goody shook his head, and with steps that were unusually heavy for him, he left.

Billy sighed, and opened up his book again. He had never held great interest in poetry, but since he wanted to learn not only the spoken but the written English as well, he had made it a rule to read all available material he could just find – be it journals, poems or ragged and muddy wanted-posters. He craved knowledge and he was adamant to acquire it.

Maybe that was why the topic couldn’t leave him sitting and reading for a long time. He needed to understand, and if Goodnight didn’t provide him with information, maybe the others would. He stood up and placed the book on his bed, promising himself that later on he’d finish it, then, draping a blanket over his shoulders he walked down the stairs.

Red Harvest was sitting on the couch, tying rosemary stems together, but Billy was sure that his mind was wandering elsewhere. He nodded at Billy when the man sat in Goodnight’s armchair.

“Is there something you didn’t tell me about?” he asked after a few minutes of tense silence – but for naught; Red Harvest did not answer. He didn’t even turn his head towards Billy as if he had not hear a sound.

“I know that Goodnight tries to hide it. And Sam is out. Why have I not seen you all eat? Why am I not hungry? I have gone without food for several days, but I know how that feels – and now I can’t feel anything. Why is it?”

He was getting angry at how Red Harvest didn’t react to any of this, how he acted as if Billy wasn’t even there, or talking to him. However, at least he knew now that there was something important that they were keeping from him – he was sure that Red Harvest would not keep silent if it was something trivial.

“Red, where is Sam? Maybe he will answer me” he tried, and after some more silence from the other man, Red Harvest turned his head and pointed at the door. He said something, but it didn’t sound English.

“I know you speak English! Answer me damnit!”

After almost half an hour of not getting anything out of the man, Billy decided that if Red Harvest was keen on not helping him out, then he might as well leave him be. He eyed the books on the shelf, but found himself unable to concentrate on other people’s narrative when his own story seemed to be somehow out of place, so he did the next best thing he could just think of – he went for a walk.

The ground was still damp from the morning dew, droplets smearing onto Billy’s boots as he walked aimlessly on the moorland. It was quiet and peaceful, yet a dull but ever present tension seemed to be draped over the place. Billy could feel it in the way the soggy ground gave way under his steps, in the way the air flew into his lungs only to make him choke on his unanswered questions.  Something just felt out of place – maybe the landscape hiding itself in a thin veil of mist, or the lighthouse towering over the surrounding undisturbed nature, maybe even Billy himself, he could not decide what it was, but it made him feel uneasy all the same.

He drew his arms around himself, and for a moment he let everything fall away from him. He let the wind that had been most cruel to him tug at his hair and swirl it around his face, forming an ever changing pitch black halo, twisting and flying as a crown made of smoke. With his eyes closed and the worry momentarily gone from his features, he felt like floating along the gushes of wind although he was standing motionless.  In this moment of utmost tranquillity, he felt that no matter how many of his questions weren’t answered, no matter how alone he had felt after Goodnight had left, no matter how long he shall wait until reality aligned back into its lawful path, he would cherish each moment he just had with his new friends – however secretive they might be. Secretive was still better than angry and hateful in Billy’s book, and besides, he actually liked his new friends. Sam’s quiet wisdom, Red Harvest’s sass and Goodnight’s steady presence – and he had to admit to liking the man’s embraces and kisses as well. The desire he had felt earlier while snogging on the couch with Goodnight had lit something in him that he had thought to be lost forever after decades of disappointment and hurt. He had started to think that he could have the chance at happiness, that he could have something as fragile and normal as a crush on someone without the fear that his neck would be sliced while he slept. Life had made him careful and heartbreak made him suspicious, but he was ready to give whatever it was between him and Goodnight the chance to bloom into something strong and wonderful. He wanted that, wanted it with such a deep longing that it almost hurt.

He didn’t know how long he had been standing there, hair and coat billowing around him like a dark vortex, his mind frozen in a world of wishes and possibilities, eyes shut tight and hopes raised high. He had heard steps drawing near, heard them and even though he could have hit the one disturbing him, he remained relaxed. The steps carried a pattern in them that he had grown to know as Goodnight’s, a stride full of surety and self-confidence.

When Goodnight’s arms sneaked around his waist, their touch gentle and soothing, Billy didn’t react, didn’t move, only enjoyed the warmth that flamed up behind his back and heated up his too cold flesh.

“I’m sorry, cher” Goodnight whispered and breathed a quick and light kiss on Billy’s neck, staying as he was, his forehead resting in Billy’s soft hair. “I’m sorry that I ran away. That I didn’t answer. I want to, but I’m so afraid.”

“Afraid of what? Goodnight, I swear that by telling me the truth, you will never harm me more than hiding it.”  

With Goodnight staying silent, the only sound around them was the distant noise of water hitting the stone, of waves rushing against the rocks with crushing force. It could have been a peaceful sound, had it not reminded Billy of his strenuous escape, of the cold rain and the hopelessness he had felt. Although he knew that there was something important that he had not been told, something that rendered Goodnight unwilling to talk, he didn’t feel anything similar to that deep and cold uncertainty that had made him question every step’s worth in the mud. He did trust Goodnight, after all, even since he had first talked to the man. Now he hoped that this trust wasn’t misplaced. He turned around in Goodnight’s arms and placed his hands on his cheeks, forcing the man to look at Billy instead of staring blankly at the ground.

“Goody. What is it?” he asked, his voice low and just sad enough to make Goodnight want to fall on his knees and apologise. He closed his eyes for a moment, then let out a shaky breath.

“You are dead. Have been for around a week.”

Billy laid his palms on Goodnight’s chest and pushed away, shaking his head as he tried to wrap his head around what he’d just heard. Dead? But he felt – he felt well. Cold, but alive. Or at least, not different from all the other times he had known he’d been most certainly alive.

Goodnight caught his arms, and the look on his face was enough to convince Billy that this here wasn’t a distasteful joke. What Goodnight had just said was the truth for the man, and it showed. Billy didn’t know how he stayed calm, how he stayed on his feet – the only thing he knew was that he believed Goodnight. He wished he didn’t.

There was the cold that had kept bothering him, ghosting around his thoughts as something unusual and disturbing, as something that should have dissipated or completely gone, yet it had become a permanent part of his existence. It had been there ever since he had woken up in the lighthouse, and had yet to leave him alone. His skin strained across his knuckles as his hands balled into fists, paling with the sheer force of the action, letting the dry and thin skin break and bleed.

“How?”

 

***

 

They walked in silence, and although they were moving with their usual speed, Billy had mixed feelings. It felt as if they were running and slouching at the same time, and this only added to his discomfort. On one hand, he needed to see some kind of proof that what he’d been told was true, yet, on the other, he dreaded what he’d find out there. If it was true, he’s face his own corpse, which was not a hauntingly common phenomena. Billy shivered at the thought – or maybe just at the wind passing them by, as if showing them the way, as if guiding them to something horrid, being proud of what macabre spectacle it had accomplished. At a point, where the tremors in his hands intensified, Billy reached out and took Goodnight’s hand, hoping for the usual warmth and reassurance. Even surprising himself, he hoped that Goodnight had told him the truth, for he’d grown too close to the man, and would have hated to feel betrayed or misled. Although, if this was what came after death, Billy thought, people should fear it less. The cold was annoying, but it had truly diminished after a few days, to a degree where it still bothered Billy, yet let him carry on with his existence, and aside from that, it was better than life had ever proved to be. If, he repeated to himself, if it was all true.

The ground now was significantly drier than it had been when Billy had come this way for the first time, and mostly even – a few patches of grass remained, but what caught Billy’s eyes was a lump covered in ragged cloth. The wind, still cheekily pleased with its deed, caught into the material and dragged it around in the air as if it was a flag of victory – and yet, for Billy, it signalled defeat. That, on the ground, curled into a pathetic ball of sickly pale flesh and tattered clothes, was him. The hair covered most of its face, branching around the cheeks and nose, covering the eyes as a threadbare pall. He stood tall above the carnage, yet he felt too faint to move and inspect it from closer. He knew that this thing used to be him, undoubtedly and without any errors, but he didn’t know what else to do.

It was then that Goodnight started to swipe his thumb across Billy’s fingers, soothing him and grounding him in the moment, reminding him that he was not alone. 

“It is not an uncommon phenomena, Billy. It has happened to many people during the past, and will happen to many more – but it never gets better. We, those who have lived like this for longer, know about what happens and how, yet the reasons are clouded even for us. Whether we got a second chance, or whether this is intended to be a punishment of eternity, we cannot decide. We only know that we are dead – dead men walking and speaking and falling in love.”

Goodnight said, his tone reflecting all the grief that had burrowed itself into his heart since Billy came knocking on their door, but the man did not even look up at him, did not move or react in any way. He was still as a stone.

“Once our friend, Emma gets here, you can ask all the questions I cannot answer if you have any – she was the one that enlightened us all. She is a dangerous lady, one of unmatched beauty and power” Goodnight continued, but he got more and more silent in his speech as he noticed that Billy was still not responding to anything he was saying. He himself grew sad, fearing that his silence preceding his forced confession would drive the man away from him “We didn’t even notice that there was someone out there in the storm, although even if we had, we could have done nothing to save you. My apologies and deepest condolences. I wish we could have met during our lives, Billy.”

Goodnight never let go of Billy’s hands as he spoke and after he had finished talking, he lifted them and kissed Billy’s ever cold fingers as gently as he could.

“I’m so sorry, cher” he breathed against the skin, and he kissed Billy’s hands again and again, until the chill that seemed to have become part of Billy vanished.

Billy had to laugh at how perfectly it fit into his life, or rather, his existence with afterlife and all that he’d be subjected something unpleasant for all eternity. But then again, he supposed, he had met Goodnight, and if that wasn’t the best thing to happen to him as of late, he couldn’t fathom what could be. Goodnight cupped his cheeks and the sharp prickling of the wind on his skin faded beneath the touch, replaced by a kinder, loving heat radiating from Goodnight’s palms, giving back some sort of semblance of comfort to Billy. He remembered how he had craved a final touch out in the storm, fallen to his knees in the mud, having lost all hope; yet he barely could believe that his last wish had been granted. Not in the same instant, or in a desired manner, but still, it did happen. Nowadays he was trying to treasure all the small things that made his days brighter, moments that made him as joyful as he had not been since his childhood. He touched the hands on his face with his chilly fingers, prying them away slowly, reluctantly, kissing them goodbye in each palm. He wanted to keep his eyes away from the corpse, but he felt a need to see it again, to see the evidence of his own death and of the promise that whatever was to come, would be different.

“It’s okay” Billy said, looking at the body trapped in the dried mud, looking pale and wrinkled from the past rains, eyes forever closed. “I’m okay. That there is not me anymore.”

It wasn’t a lie completely, yet Billy still felt himself far from completely okay – with the situation, the new truths that has been uncovered, but at least he had his answers now. He didn’t understand much yet, but he was sure he could ask Goodnight and their other friends as well if he encountered something new or weird.    

“I’m truly glad you think so, cher. There is no reason mourning the past when we have the present for us until the days provided run out.”

“Yes. Up until this point” Billy looked out at the sea and taking Goodnight’s hand in his, turned around to go back to the lighthouse “death has treated me better than life ever had.”

There was something sad in Goodnight’s features as he stared at Billy then, something that conveyed a message of understanding, but Goodnight remained silent. Billy remembered how he’d told the man already that he’d prefer not to talk about the reason of his escape, and Goodnight had understood that it hadn’t been the time for that. But now, now Billy felt something akin to an obligation to tell him what had caused such a huge change in his life, what had drove him into his untimely death.

His grasp tightened around Goodnight hand, who mirrored the gesture as they walked silently towards their residence, both men thinking about the next step they should make. There were certain questions Billy would have liked to ask, yet he did not want to disturb already stilled waters, or bring forth unpleasant memories from either of his friends, yet he was curious. He wanted to know if Red Harvest’s aversion to water and his bruises were something like his own battle with the cold, or if Goodnight’s increased temperature was also a remainder from his last moments as a living being.

“When did you know?”

His voice was soft as he asked, silent, a breath of careful reaching out towards understanding and embracing the situation.

“When Emma told us. I wish I could say that I was surprised. Or frightened. But in all honesty, cher” he murmured, and run his thumb over Billy’s skin “, it was nothing more than an explanation. It calmed me in a way. Provided me with the knowledge that it wasn’t my sanity that has left me, only my life. Which was, in a way, a better deal. I was here. In a way, we are alive – we think, we feel, we reach out towards each other –, yet, it’s only luck that has given us the illusion of life. We are here for each other, but what if we weren’t? If we were left alone with our rotting morals and hopes and humanity? Oh, but I’m staying far from your inquiry. It was she who told us, after a few weeks of utter uncertainty. We died with Sam around here, ou see, with a few days of difference in time. He died first, although I don’t remember much. I was battling a fever at that time, and it rattled my memory quite strongly, but I know he was shot.”

“Then” Goodnight continued with a slight lowering of his voice “I fell asleep, burning up and hurting from an injury Sam didn’t have the time to clean up before he was shot – and next thing I remember is waking up, still feeling the fever running through me, still with the hurt pulsing in my shoulder, but otherwise feeling fine. The first thing I saw was Sam’s face – a face that looked rather animated for a dead man. I thought I was hallucinating” Goodnight allowed himself a small laugh at that, and looked at the lighthouse’s nearing silhouette “Next thing I remember is freaking out at my corpse. Sam held the rest of my sanity together, up until a woman – our dearest Emma – appeared. She was a sight to behold, let me tell you. Her hair all red, flames catching on the strands as the heat lifted up her locks, but never consuming them, her eyes sharp but kind. She was awe-inspiring and otherworldly as she walked closer to us, and frightening when she told us the truth. She led us here, and told us that an old friend of hers used to reside here, and now it’s free for us to take. So we moved in, and accepted that we’re to face a death that differed from all the images of hell and heaven and purgatory that we had been scared with as children.”

“Where’s she now?”

“Out there somewhere. She never stays in one place for great lengths – she has suffered alone for too long, I think, and now she wants to prevent that happening to others. So she comes and goes all the time, visiting when she so wishes. She also brings Teddy on most occasions.”

“Teddy? Another wandering soul?”

They reached the house, and while they entered and put their outdoor clothes away, Goodnight answered.

“No, he’s a Seer. He’s as alive as one can be, but he sees us. They are a rare breed, but there are some out there, who see all of it – the living and the dead alike.”

Billy hummed at that, and nodded, then headed to the armchair to sit close to the fire, with Goodnight following close. When they rounded the sofa to sit close to the fireplace, they found Red and Sam sprawled out on the couch, Sam fast asleep, Red Harvest lounging on his chest. He signed them to stay calm, but in that same moment, Sam opened an eye, and looked at the two men.

“How did it go?” 

“It was weird” Billy said, his eyes falling to Sam and Red Harvest’s hands, joined together and laying against Sam’s chest. They seemed comfortable now – but then again, they have had the time to get used to their situation. Billy wondered if it was also something weird that he had yet to find in it himself to feel disturbed and not only surprised by the newly acquired information, but then again, living in America had trained him well to take things in stride.

“Heh, I bet it was. Are you sad?”

“No.”

Goodnight sat down in the armchair, while Billy took a pillow from the other one and threw it on the ground close enough to Goodnight’s leg to be able to lean against it after he’d sat down. He closed his eyes for a few moments, enjoying the casual air in the room, the familiarity and the trust he felt towards the others relaxing him. He had never dared to imagine a domestic future for himself, for a plethora of reasons, starting with the two main factors of his life: one being that some Americans were just rubbed the wrong way when he appeared somewhere, which meant that he could not lower his guard and let himself enjoy even his alone time, for fear of being interrupted rather suddenly and not for good reasons. The second, yet main reason was that men who shared his tastes usually hid their affections and did not display them even in from of their friends. Whenever he imagined himself and a man, relationship was a word he never put to his daydreams. Lover was never a category to sort his flings into. But now, with Red and Sam not being bothered by them being in the same room as them when they were affectionate, or looking twice when they’d caught them kissing on the stairway the other day, now it all seemed to suddenly settle into his heart and mind that yes, it was now the way things were. It was reality now.

Billy opened his eyes and tilted his head into the caresses of Goodnight’s hand that had slipped into the tangle of his hair, sliding them slowly, meticulously until no knots were present in the locks. It was silent, and somehow felt even more intimate than the times Billy had taken anyone to bed – more of a connection, more of a statement. They were sharing Billy’s new knowledge, this whole mixed feeling of being surprised and being accepted and loved, and the man was thankful that he had someone like Goodnight with him.

He glanced at the sofa, and caught Red Harvest staring at them, his head comfortably turned to the side on Sam’s chest, his mouth in a little, reserved smile. But his eyes, they held all the mischief that his other facial expressions did not provide – and even though Billy had not been with them for more than a couple of weeks, he had realised quite soon that to decipher Red’s mood or intent, one had to look for his eyes. Even while sporting a serious and emotionless expression, his eyes could convey a lot. Right now, they housed an amused gleam and understanding. After all, Billy mused, they were walking in the same shoes as far as he knew, with both of them having been lost and the found by people that had not only accepted them but drew them into their family.

He was dead, Billy thought. Goodnight was dead as well, along with Sam and Red Harvest – yet somehow, every member of this strange family was having the time of his life. Not a single soul was bothering them anymore, they had a nice home, and basically no needs that could slow down their days, only self-imposed rules and regulations that made existence easier – for example sleeping. Billy had always been a light sleeper, he was up at the smallest of sounds, at the creaking of the floorboards, the sneeze of the bartender or the occasional breathing of his one-night lays. Caution had come as a second nature after he had to get on with life on his own, yet here, it was peaceful enough that he let his guard slip more and more with each passing day. He let out a minute puff of air as he thought about the surrealistic nature of the situation: here they were, all dead – and pleased with it to no end. He supposed, if the church knew about this and let the knowledge spread, maybe there would be more suicides, more desperate people deciding that the slim chance of becoming a ghost was more enticing than the lifelong promise of hardships and losses. Then again, Billy mused, maybe the church didn’t even know that such feat ever happened. They were, after all, too high up in their own asses to see the world around themselves, for which Billy hated them even more than for their hypocrisy. Maybe it was for the best, he decided as he reached up and grabbed Goodnight’s hand, bringing it to his lips to give it a quick kiss, that this knowledge was reserved for people like Goodnight or Sam or Red. Good people. He fell asleep surrounded by smells he now associated with this immense safety, the smell of lavender that had slowly permeated his clothes, the smell of Goodnight’s skin and the peacefully smouldering logs.

He woke to whispered words and soft touches on his shoulders, and for a moment he let himself enjoy it before opening half an eye. He smiled at Goodnight – crouching next to him, hands outstretched, his eyes so full of kindness –, then looked around in search for their friends, but found the room empty.

“You’ve slept quite a few hours, cher” Goodnight said, then stood up and offered a hand. Billy took it, and even after he was upright, he let his fingers close around Goodnight’s. It felt nice, to be able to hold hands and smile and kiss – so he did all of these right there and then. He drew Goodnight closer, kissed his lips and his cheeks and his jaw, slid his free hand over his chest and his arm and let it stop on his waist. He had wanted this for so long and so desperately, while keeping it hidden from others and sometimes even from himself, that it now seemed almost unbelievable. He, Billy Rocks, he had gotten to a safe place, made friends and met someone he could imagine loving without an end. The thought made him warm where his death had left him ice cold, the kisses he was receiving made his heart flutter although it should be still, and his hand strongly clasped in another made him feel as safe as life had never allowed him to.

“Goody” he said, touching his forehead against Goodnight’s “, Goody. Would you like to escort me back?”

“To your room?”

“To my bed” Billy kissed the words onto his lips and licked an answer on his tongue, running his fingers over Goody’s deep blue shirt that he so loved seeing on the man, and that he wanted to fling into the ocean right now.

Up they went to the room then, silent laughter following in their steps as they ascended. It was comfortable with Goodnight, Billy realised, even the simple act of walking or holding hands, the kissing, it was all good now. They weren’t rushed, shameful secrets of an empty barn or the back of a tavern, no – they were now small treasures of his days, ones that he could be proud of. Once the door was shut behind their backs, they undressed each other, traced scars that were now part of their skins for all eternity, Goodnight kissed the cracked skin of Billy’s fingers and Billy licked Goodnight’s furnace-hot chest, both lost to the other. They made love that night, both of them seeking pleasure only to give it back right away, both of them feeling light and content and happy, and there was something else as well, something undefinable and new and grand. 

The next day Billy woke up in Goodnight’s arms, and for a few minutes of his waking existence, he felt the coldness in his chest dissipate, felt Goodnight’s warmth take over and surround him. That feeling from the night before was still thrumming in his chest, that great feeling of everything, that shadow of the universe and the future and the promise of happiness and belonging and he hang onto this. He didn’t want to let go of it anytime soon, so he shut his eyes and let sleep drag him back into a dream, this time free of anything bad.

 

***

 

Billy was standing on the stairs and leaning on the windowsill, observing the endless moorland that he had come to love once again, this time illuminated by the rising sun’s warm gleam, yet curiously hidden by the morning haze. It had a serene yet strong aura with all the dewdrops glinting on the grass and the purple heathers within seeing distance, only enhanced by how the road that led to the cliffs reflected back the golden rays in its countless puddles. In the distance, the world seemed to melt into a vast and endless cloud of mist, sitting on the land as a cosy woollen blanket, hiding what was an ugly, foreign world to Billy. He had had some time to dwell on whether he actually could accept being dead, but somehow the company of his similarly dead friends and lover made it easy to decide that yes, he could find solace in being away from society and the closed minded attitude of people. If he was truly honest with himself, this newest development of his life still made him question his sanity a few times, made him wonder if he simply had gone crazy and was now imagining things, but in the end, he always calmed himself. If this was truly something in his mind, it was also alright. He felt fine – aside from the shivers he got most of the day, from the cold fingertips and the chilling sensation in his bones –, which had been his primary goal in life. He had wanted to live in peace, if not with everyone, but with a few people that made it worth to fight on day to day, and a place that he could have called home. Now, he thought, now he had all of these things, and if they were part of his imagination, he did not want to ever let go of this particular fantasy.

As he was musing about his life and his death, he kept surveying the landscape, glance darting from the close-by flowers to the far away mist. At one point, he thought he saw the sun rising, although he had found it difficult to believe that he could actually see it through the mist and the trees that were hidden by it. His suspicion only grew when the blazing spot in the swirling mist grew and drew closer to the lighthouse. It kept on moving, always forward, always toward Billy’s new home. He did not know what it could be, but he was sure that it was not a single torch or lantern – it gave much more light than that. There was a sudden thought that seemed to appear out of nowhere in this vast peace that he had sunk into in the lighthouse, a flare of panic – what if they were the men that had chased him into his death? What if they had come here looking for him? He knew, somewhere deep in his consciousness that they could not hurt him anymore, yet he wanted nothing to do with them. He didn’t even want to think about them, let alone have to look at them or tolerate them this close to his newfound heaven.

He turned around to hurry up the steps and ask Goodnight if this was only a trick of the mist, if this was usual, or if his dread was well placed and intruders would shatter their peace. Billy couldn’t even finish his movement when he collided with someone, who steadied them both with hands grabbing at and holding Billy’s arms. It was Goodnight, Billy realised, and this fact alone calmed him somewhat.

“Goody” he started, his mouth suddenly feeling as dry as after his death “what is that light?”

“Light?” Goodnight echoed, then peered over Billy’s shoulder, trying to find what Billy could be talking about.

“In the mist. Over there, you see? It keeps moving.”

After Billy had pointed out the flaming spot, Goodnight found it quickly, looking at it for a few seconds with the same expression of curiosity on his face, which then proceeded to change into an amused grin.

“Oh, that. That’s Emma.”

“Emma? The Emma who knows her herbs?” Billy asked. He had pictured a frail old lady when Goodnight had first told him about Emma and her habit of picking and drying herbs, about her knowing the ins and out of their predicament. Now, after hearing Goodnight’s answer, he started to wonder if he was off a bit with his estimates. While he had seen his fair share of older people who could wipe the floor with any green younglings, he was sure that a bent-backed, greying lady could not, or rather, would not, carry such a huge lantern that could emit a similarly huge light. Billy quietly erased a few years off of this image of a woman, and added some muscles to the picture.

“Yeah, that one. And the one that saved us back in the day – from doubt, no less” Goodnight answered and leant closer to Billy, feeling the man let go some of his tenseness under his touch.

“She must be strong.”

“She is, indeed. But how did you know?”

“Well, to bring such a huge lamp, she sure needs some muscles” Billy murmured and canted his head to the side. He was growing to be exceptionally curious about this Emma.

Goodnight stared at Billy. Then, he looked out of the window.

Then, after a heartbeat of complete silence, after a moment of watching the light inch closer to the edge of the mist, he looked back at his lover, with a full-blown smile on his face.

“She indeed has a lantern, cher, but it’s not that what radiates the light. It’s a nice piece of craftsmanship, you see, but it is just a sentiment of hers to carry it around. And while her physical strength is not bad, I’d say her true power lies elsewhere. You shall see it soon with your own eyes.”

Goodnight wound his arms around Billy’s waist and pressed a light kiss to his neck, letting his breath ghost over the skin as he turned his head to rest on Billy’s shoulder. Billy leant into the embrace, closer to the warm body of his lover, his eyes remaining on the halo of light moving closer and growing both in size and intensity. The proximity of Goodnight, the warm sensation around himself lulled him, presenting him with a few moments of precious peacefulness.

“It will be alright, cher. She is on our side” Goodnight whispered then in an unusual, grave voice, but he could have said the complete opposite for what he’d achieved with this one statement. Billy’s eyes widened slightly and the haze of tranquillity was gone in an instant. The lazy mindfulness was shattered, replaced with alertness and a tension that made him want to curl his fingers into Goodnight’s sleeves and flesh until it hurt. What kind of person was this Emma that Goodnight needed to reassure him about her intents? Was she angry? Or scary enough to warrant a warning?

As the minutes passed, a group of people appeared out of the mist, in the front going a figure so bright that Billy couldn’t see past the light, but he was sure that it was Emma. Behind her were several others, following the woman slowly, staggering with each step, as if they were being dragged forward.

There was a sharp inhale from Goodnight at the sight.

“Let’s go greet her, cher” he said, and not even waiting for Billy’s answer, he started going down on the stairs. He turned back, and Billy’s feet went numb when Goodnight looked straight in his eyes. Goodnight’s eyes were empty – dirty white, soulless patches instead of his teal irises. Billy couldn’t move. Whatever was happening, it was happening too fast, too sudden. The peace that he had felt seemed far away, seemed like an old dream at the moment.

“Billy” Goodnight pleaded and offered his hand for Billy to take “, you can trust me. Let us show you something new.”

Billy considered it for a moment. He did trust Goodnight – he had to thank him and his friends for the last weeks of safety and happiness –, yet he couldn’t deny that at the moment, he was afraid. While Goodnight sounded and acted like normally, there was something new in his expression. There was hunger written on his face, in his dead eyes, and it shook Billy to the core. He looked out of the window, and searched for the group. They were closer, light-shrouded figure breaking the dawn’s darkness, shadow-puppets following her on her path.

“Cher, you know that I would never do anything against you, don’t you?” Goodnight asked, and Billy nodded. He knew that. Goodnight had promised him that no harm would come to him while he was here, after all. He took the man’s hand, and followed him down the steps, only stopping at their friends’ door. Goodnight knocked on the wood, four times as always. When Red Harvest opened it, Billy could see how surprise had taken over his nonchalant expression. Maybe even for them it was a rare sight to see those cold, soulless eyes that Goodnight now sported. A shiver ran down Billy’s spine. He hoped Red Harvest and Sam would not follow suit and scare him to hell and back.  

“Sam” Red called back into the room, not turning his head, answering Goodnight’s unwavering gaze in kind “Emma’s here.”

“Emma?” Sam walked out of their washing room, wiping his hands on a rag.

“Emma” croaked Goodnight, and with a shaking hand, he squeezed Billy’s arm “She brought people. Living people.”

Sam hummed and nodded, his eyes becoming hazy and just as white as Goodnight’s, although his expression remained unchanged. Seeing how Sam was still collected and cool, and Red Harvest was only staring at him with a bored look calmed him to some extent – but it was hard to dismiss how Goody’s fingers dug into his flesh with each major tremble that run through the man.

“What’s going on?” It was again that hateful feeling of being left in the dark. Billy hated it to no ends.

“Emma usually means company, and company means a few days of ease” Red answered, and shrugged his shoulders.

“You will soon see, cher, you will feel it and you will love it, I promise” Goodnight added, and steered Billy out of the door and down the stairway. They got to the first floor just when three loud bangs echoed through the house.

Goodnight stopped at the main door, letting Sam and Red go out first. As the door opened, light filled the antechamber. Somehow, in the strong light, Goodnight seemed paler than ever, his features borrowed from a broken man who had long given up everything.

“Don’t worry, darling” he said and kissed Billy, so gently, so perfectly, that for a short time, Billy’s nerves quieted. The hands on his face were burning up with the usual heat, with the fever coursing through the long dead flesh, but Billy welcomed it, just as he welcomed the touch on his hand after another short kiss. As they walked to their friends, hands entwined and steps steady, Billy looked up to see what Emma was like.

 What he saw was terrifying and awe-inspiring.

Emma was a slight woman, with ordinary clothes and an ordinary, pretty face. What was, however, not ordinary about her appearance was her hair. It was red and wavy, falling around her shoulders and her face – and each and every strand of it was burning.

“This must be your new friend. Billy, if I’m not mistaken?” stepped Emma closer, a small lantern in one hand. Its light was barely visible through the halo-like brightness around her head.

Billy nodded slowly, not taking his eyes off of the flames for a moment, too surprised and shaken to say anything. Emma only smiled – just a small movement of her lips, nothing grand – and held out her hand for Billy to take.

“Come along, let me show you something. I reckon the others didn’t tell you much?”

“Not everything it seems.”

“Let me fill in the gaps, then. I have brought your first meal.”

“Meal? But you arrived with…”

“With people, yes. And if you look closer, you will find them most familiar, I believe.”

As Emma was talking and leading Billy further from the other three, they got closer to the group that Emma had led there and had left some distance away. After Billy looked up at their faces, he felt himself freeze. These men were the ones he had had to run from! There was the one with the scar around his nose, the one that whose teeth Billy had bashed in during their last fight – all five were there.

“Now, I understand that this will sound weird” started Emma and laid a hand on Billy’s back “, but these bodies are not part of the living world anymore. I have selected them for the taking, for you, for the others, for me. They will make an excellent celebratory cuisine I believe.”

Billy snapped his head around, looking at the woman as if she’d had a second head filled with such insane thoughts.

“Are you insane?”

“Oh, dear. Not like that. You don’t even need to touch them – don’t worry. We aren’t cannibals, we are ghosts. Hungry ghosts. We will only consume their souls. Not that I haven’t seen ah” she shook her head as she frowned “, purer ones. Still, since I saw what they did to you, I wanted to get them a fitting punishment. Although, you are not angry at them, right?”

“I am not” Billy started, the surprise still evident in his features and the way he tried to lean away from the people in front of him “I don’t know. I’m happy here.”

“Well, then this is not revenge but justice, for if the living care not, we shall dole it out ourselves. Shall we start?” Emma stepped to his side, one hand still bracing his back, the other holding out the lantern, illuminating the five men, looking as empty as the corpse that had etched its image into Billy’s mind – his own, weather-beaten corpse.

“I’m not even – ugh. I’m not even hungry.”

“This is a different kind of hunger, dear. A hunger to rid of your pains and ills, the cold that bothers you whenever you are far from intense heat. This here is the way for you to forget how the rain tore your soul out, how the wind blew away your life, how the mud trapped your lifeless body. This is your chance to feel better.”

“What happens to them after their soul is taken?”

“They will live. They will go home and live – but they will have no speech in their mouth, no sight in their eyes and no will in their hearts. They will live an empty life – although I’m sure no one will be the wiser. They don’t look like the family-sort for me.”

“That doesn’t make it right” Billy averted his gaze from the men and looked at his trembling hands. The fingertips looked ashen, and the skin around his nails had crack filled with clotted blood. If it truly could lighten these pains… If it truly could help him be warm, just once – just for a few days…

He tried to feel bad for these men, he truly did, yet, when he put their souls and his own well-being into a scale, it tipped towards the latter. These men had killed him. They had felt nothing back then, only the temptation of the bounty on Billy’s head – maybe they won’t even change that much. Maybe, Billy though, he was a bad person. Maybe, followed another thought at the speed of a lightning, maybe fate did him a favour for keeping him on Earth and not letting him cross into the afterlife – maybe he had been saved from Hell and an eternal suffering.

“What do I do?”

“Just watch us and you will know when to join in the fun, dear” Emma said and beckoned Goodnight, Sam and Red Harvest closer. Goodnight brushed Billy’s hand as he walked past him, and smiled. If it wasn’t for the eyes and the greyish tone his skin had paled into, it could have been even comforting.

The three of them, along with Emma, surrounded the men and started walking in a circle with slow, steady steps – one hand held to to the side, aiming towards the people in the circle. They had been standing still that far, but as the circles began, as Emma started to chant something that Billy didn’t understand, they shuddered and their arms shout out, trying to grab at things that weren’t there. While they kept hitting the air around themselves, kicking at the dirt, looking around blindly, their faces turned hollowed and ashen with horrors seen only by them. One shouted something about owls maiming his face, cursing them all, mourning his lost eyes and begging for mercy. The other fell into the dirt with a sharp cry, followed by weaker ones, his body convulsing on the ground, twisting and turning so harshly that the sound of his bones cracking got to Billy loud and clear, even through Emma’s clear voice. The third took small steps around in a little circle, his head hung low, ten shaking fingers digging into his chest, breathing hard and loud, repeating like a mantra that ‘the bullet must be taken out, the bullet must be taken out. Next to him the man looked at the sky and opened his mouth but no sound came for long moments – then a wail tore itself out from his throat, hands clawing at his temple and his hair while he collapsed to his knees, shouting about flames melting away his skin.

Billy watched with his head tilted to the side, and he felt something creep up his spine, something lukewarm and tingling. The fifth man had been just standing in the middle of the circle, motionless, shoulders slumped and head hung low – and then he looked up, straight into Billy’s eyes. It wasn’t a question what to do anymore as an instinct he had not known he had took over and guided him into the circle of his friends. He walked with them, walked counter clockwise between Emma and Red and he felt his eyes grow heavy with power. As he completed a circle, he sought out the firft’s eyes again, and, as he imagined the man face the cutting wind and the sharp rain, he willed his soul into his outstretched hand.

Something ancient tingled around his palm as he walked, something heavy crept up on his arm and into his chest, woven itself between his ribs and his lungs and heart and kept beating there with a warm and powerful pulse.

He felt a laugh die on his lips as the world suddenly went too bright around him to bear.  

 

***

 

The first thing Billy felt upon waking was softness and a comfortable warmth surrounding him. Never sleeping too deeply was an old habit of his, yet, as awareness trickled back to him, Billy had to face that not only had he no memory of going to bed, he had been so completely out that if anyone wanted him hurt, they could have done so with ease. If they wanted to kill him – but no, that was no longer a concern. Here, no one wanted to kill him, here his friends wanted him to take away other people’s souls. He believed that Emma hadn’t lied, yet he felt something akin to guilt as he was thinking about the chanting and the men’s pained, horrified faces.

He sighed and turned to his other side, looking at a small bouquet of herbs on his nightstand. The smell had helped him with his nightmares, although Billy wasn’t sure if it had to do something with just their scent, or with how Goodnight’s clothes, his embrace – safe safe safe – always smelt the same. Only if it could help him with the memories that occupied a fair share of his thoughts during the day – just like now, screams and begging resonating in his ears, no matter how hard he tried to tune it out. He tried to go back to sleep, not caring about how much time he spent in bed – time no longer held any importance to him, after all.

After it became clear that no matter what he tried, he would not be able to sleep some more, he gave up, and with some muttered curses he sat up. A part of him hoped that Emma had already parted ways from her friends and gone on her merry way of bewitching and practically murdering people. Some other part wanted her to be as present as she and her otherworldly hair could manage it. He was curious and if the woman was still present, he wanted to get some things clarified. There was, just to name a few, a why. Why would he get stuck in this state? And then a how – how did she know about his pursuers? And then countless others, but he just sighed, and deciding that sitting around and not asking would not lead anywhere, he started dressing.

There was something, Billy thought, that he was missing. Something from his morning routine. He buttoned up his shirt and slid on his vest – and then he looked at his hands. They were looking fine.

He brought his fingers closer to his face, inspecting them carefully, picking at the skin with his nails, but nothing happened. He scratched the back of his left hand, drew angry white lines over his knuckles, and still – there was nothing but a small warm sensation under the skin, slowly fading out of his flesh.

There were no traces of a cold that dried his skin until it broke, no red lines cracking up more with each flex of his fingers. There was no pain in his fingertips, no blood all over his skin.

He needed to talk to Emma. He needed to kiss Goodnight.

 

***

 

Although the kiss had to wait, seeing how Goodnight was absent, Billy indeed got to talk to Emma. She was sitting in front of the fire, holding an embroidery frame and working ceaselessly with a happily glinting needle. It was oddly domestic for a woman whose hair flared brighter than the logs in the hart, even more so if someone knew that she had recently robbed five men of their souls. For some reason, Billy found this contrast endearing.

“I never took you for the sort that enjoyed needlework” he said, and stepped closer to inspect what she was in the process of making.

“Oh, yes. People often make that mistake, but let me assure you, I just love embroidering things. This” she held out the frame towards Billy, showing him the fresh white material with peonies and ferns mingling in an organised bouquet “will be for a dear friend of mine. She died a few years after me. We knew each other, were friends even while still alive. Her death-day is closing in and I want to surprise her.”

Billy listened and sat in Goodnight’s armchair.

“You talk so freely about it. Dying.”

Emma was looking at her work, but oddly enough Billy felt all her attention focused on him. It wasn’t unnerving, not even a negative feeling; somehow knowing that she was there and ready to talk was reassuring. The small smile that appeared on her face only enhanced this feeling.

“It was a long time ago – I had time getting used to it. Having Leni, the girl I’m making this for, with me made it easier in the beginning. I wanted things to be good for her, so I had to stand tall and act as if it didn’t bother me. After a while, it became my reality.” She stopped stitching to bring her loose hair behind her ears, then she continued, her hand just as pale and flawless as it had been before touching her hair. “I’ve seen people more bothered about their situation than you are. You are oddly calm about this whole ordeal.”

Billy shrugged and looked at his hands. Recently whenever he absentmindedly picked at the skin around his nails it was bound to draw blood, but now, as he watched his nails scrape at the skin, it remained unharmed.

“Not that I can do anything about it, right? But this soul-thing” he gestured towards the main door “helped with the annoying parts.”

“It’s exactly why we do it from time to time. Sadly it’s only a temporary occurrence after consuming a soul, but it should last for a few weeks at least. We try to not get attached to the process though.”

“I can understand why. It was rather grim.”

They talked until their friends came back from their walk, guiding a rather fidgety-looking young man with them. He wore his emotions on his face, and Billy suspected him to be that sort of man that would go to war with trembling hands and hasty prayers, yet he would be the first to join if he could save his loved ones. Emma greeted the man with a warm hug, and drew him closer to her side, as if he was under her protection. Maybe he was, or maybe Emma had feelings for the unfortunate man, Billy didn’t dwell on it for long. What interested him was the tales the man – Teddy Q, pleased to meet you, sir – told them. He spoke of the outside world, the living people, and the cities and the otherwise dull moments that would not have been noteworthy had they been there to see it first-hand.  Billy sometimes caught Goodnight’s glances, the worry in them as he fidgeted with his belt, as he had to drop his gaze as if Billy’s eyes had burnt him.

After a while Billy couldn’t take this anymore, and after excusing himself from Emma’s company, he took Goodnight’s hand and led him away. They went outside in complete silence, only their boots making sound as they treaded across the stones standing guard on the edge of the cliffs.

“Billy.”

“Goody.”

They came to a halt a few feet away from the edge, standing close, hand in hand.

“I’m sorry I didn’t tell you about this before” Goodnight said and brought up a hand to tuck Billy’s hair behind his ear.

“Don’t, Goody. This one wasn’t on you. Anyone could have told me, yet nobody did. I’m kind of glad for it, though. Maybe I wouldn’t have given it a chance, if I had more time thinking on it. I don’t know. What I do know, though, is that you are not at fault.”

They listened to the waves before either of them talked again, embracing each other and resting like that.

“How are you feeling?”

“I feel alive.”

If that was due to finally not feeling cold and wretched or to being held like he always wanted, he could not decide. Until he had the latter, Billy thought, he really didn’t even care.  

 

***

 

In the following months their small family gained new members in one Joshua Faraday and Miguel Vasquez, two men who occasionally coughed up smoke and whose hair just smelled of ash and burnt wood. They had been living together peacefully, out of anyone’s way on a small ranch, raising cattle and growing a small patch of crops so they could remain as isolated from the nearby settlements as possible. They had never been ashamed of their love, of the bond they had been sharing since their younger years, yet they had been aware of the consequences of being found out. Vasquez’s abuela had known about their relationship and even gave them her blessings, then took the secret to her grave. For a time, Josh said to Billy one day, they’d thought they’d be fine alone, without prying eyes and cursing mouths, but luck had been bound to run out. They had come with torches, Miguel added and linked hands with his husband, then proceeded to tell how they had been beaten and bound, and left in the burning wreckage of a home they had so desperately craved and cherished.

The next one to appear was Jack Horne, the previous dweller of the lighthouse, who acme with stories from the sea, telling how the waves spun foam-white songs and cloud-grey poems about dead sailors and daring ships. Billy liked him, although he could not understand him from time to time, with his unique way of thinking and believing. He proved to be like the current – once he got to know that Emma would be back in a short while, he decided to stick around, yet found himself unable to sit and do nothing. He went into the forest at dawn and returned at dusk, always sure that he had not missed Emma.

One day, Horne and Emma walked back from the forest side by side, talking and laughing, closely followed by a similarly happy Teddy Q.

Emma came to tell a tale, he said, and Emma tells the best of tales. Emma spins the words into tears and smiles, he said, and he went to tell Sam and Red Harvest. Emma will make you laugh, he told Billy as he fetched quilts for all of them to be placed on the rocks, and then she will make you cry until your eyes are red.

***

There sat Emma, with her flaming red hair spread around her head like a halo, strands of hair passing her face every now and then, never grazing her pale skin, never lighting her blouse on fire, only radiating heat and shining on the world around her, making her look even more beautiful and dangerous. Around her were the seven souls she rallied once, in another life, all waiting for her story to start, patiently looking at the otherworldly sight she provided. On her right was Teddy, fiddling around with some herbs, trying to tie them together into a neat stick. When he was ready, he handed it to Emma who took it in both hands, murmured hushed words into the gale to be carried away and never to return, to be let free, then lighted the stick with the fire of her hair, and held it as it slowly turned to ash and smoke.

“There are several lives we live” she started, looking through the curling smoke “and now we live like ghosts and spirits, Seers, even after death we thrive and we meet with all whom we are destined to know and cross paths with. In other lives, we are salesmen, teachers and actors, in yet another, we are not even born as humans, but people of different origins. I could tell the tale of all of these, any of these, but hear me out: I will tell you about the one that I saw first, that started my journey towards finding you all in this existence. Let me tell you about Rose Creek, about seven heroes gathering to face a storm that tears people apart – about the life many of you lost there, about the glory of the dead and the reverie of the living. Hear my tale of hope that you lighted in hearts ready to give up, hear my tale of light…”

 

**Author's Note:**

> I have some ideas in mind, so it is quite possible that a sequel will be added featuring either Goody, Sam, Red and Jack's backgrounds since I still have some meta that has not gotten into the final version of the story, or Faraday and Vasquez and their happy and sadly too short domestic life in more detail. Maybe I'll write both. As the gods of uni will allow it.


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